Doctor What - Chapter One
by WhitCollins
Summary: Given recent events in Doctor Who canon this is based on a future Doctor that we haven't seen before. It is 1995, Manchester. Rosie and David Wren are siblings who have lived together in a flat ever since their parents died. In Chapter One, Rosie goes to a local corner shop where she works and meets a strange customer who has a fondness for jelly babies and talking jibberish.


He didn't look right. He looked incomplete. He _was _incomplete. There was something missing but Rosie couldn't put her finger on it. She held him up, blocking out the main light, biting her lip, but the incongruity eluded her.

"David!"

She could hear the T.V, but she couldn't hear her brother. If he was asleep the windows should have been shaking with his beast like snoring.

"David!"

"What?"

"You haven't touched Ruffles have you?"

"Why would I touch that thing?"

"He's not a thing"

"Yes he is. I've not touched him. I don't know why you think that I would"

"You're not a thing" Rosie said, hugging the stuffed animal.

"Yes he is", David appeared in the doorway, grinning at her, "How long have you had that— him?".

"Fifteen years and counting"

"Good thing he isn't real then. If he was a real dog he'd probably be dead by now"

Rosie looked around for something to throw, but there wasn't anything close by. She listed Ruffles above her head without thinking. David held his hand up.

"Ah, ah, that's animal abuse"

"You can take care of yourself". Rosie lowered her arm, put Ruffles on the bed and turned him to face David, "What's wrong with him?". David looked down, looked at her with a blank look and shrugged.

"He's ugly?"

"No"

"He should be with a kid instead of a twenty-one year old woman?"

"No"

"He's missing a button"

"No, wait, what?", Rosie turned Ruffles around and examined the shirt that was stitched to his body. The top button was missing. "He's supposed to have four"

"Well, he clearly has three" David said, pointing at him, "He looks too casual, couldn't turn up to a job interview like that"

"You've already got a job as snuggle buddy, haven't you?" Rosie said, bringing him in to give him a hug that would have squeezed the life out of him if he was alive. David grimaced and looked down the corridor to the living room, and still looking he said, "Perhaps it came off when you were strangling him"

"Or perhaps someone cut it off?"

"Implying _I _did it?" David said, looking back. He looked offended. "I wouldn't touch that thing. You've had him since you were what? Six? Wear and tear, love"

Rosie looked at Ruffles. He looked happier now his top button was gone after all these years, like he could breathe properly. His black eyes were flecked with white where they had been chipped over fifteen years of service. Besides his eyes, the button and the blackened singe on his left air he was in remarkable condition.

"So if you've done playing detective, I'm missing _Tarrant on TV_. If you don't mind..."

"No", Rosie sighed, "Go watch Ch—"

David was gone before she finished. The glare from the T.V playing on the walls of the corridor disappeared as he shut the door. Chris Tarrant's voice quietened. Rosie switched on her bedside lamp, left Ruffles on the bed, got up and shut her bedroom door, leaning against it, giving the floor a cursory scan as she looked for the black button. She looked at her alarm clock and switched off the main light. A strip of moonlight coming in through the gaps in her curtains falling on the stuffed animal lying on his side. She never remembered falling asleep.

The Boo Radleys woke Rosie up with a single they released earlier that year. 'Wake up, it's a beautiful morning', they sang, their cheeriness clashing with the dismal, grey Manchester sky peering in through the gap in the curtains.

She pulled a pillow over her face and let a guttural moan out into it before pulling it off and throwing it at the window.

"I should start praying for sun, shouldn't I?" she said, turning her head to Ruffles who, in characteristic form just shut up and listened. Who needed a boyfriend? If he could speak he would have told her to pray for pest control and warned her about the spiders but alas he was an inanimate object, making him a terrible guard dog.

She stroked his head and ran her fingers along the burn on his ear, where the fabric had melted and hardened. "I'm sorry", she whispered. Even if he was still going strong, she had to admit that she could have done a better job looking after him. The burn was her fault, but it was so many years since the fire.

"Good thing I grew out of that, eh!?" she said, jumping out of bed.

After her shower she brushed her teeth, got dressed, put a CD in her Walkman and left the flat, locking the door behind her. She had to be careful how she walked because the damn thing kept skipping. It was difficult listening to Dylan when it sounded like he was leaving out chunks of _Like a Rolling Stone_. More like a skipping stone. It was a pain because most days she'd have to run for the bus, which she hated doing; running was for escaping tigers, potential murderers and general weirdoes. Perhaps they'd have special, non-skipping Walkmans in ten years.

Light spots of water started falling on her skin. They were soft, sparse kisses from the clouds...for now, but soon she'd be ravaged by rain. Her stop didn't have a bloody shelter either, but today time seemed to be on her side.

Rosie arrived at the bus stop just as her bus came around the corner, which was odd because usually it was early meaning she had missed it, or late, meaning she could fit in some morning exercise and run to work. She felt as if the bus company was against her. The bus pulled up to her in seconds, its doors opening with a hiss. At that same moment those falling kisses started to pour down as the clouds gave up and dropped their baggage on the thousands of Mancunians below.

"You couldn't have timed it better", the bus driver said.

"Me? You're the one driving, mate. I'm not usually this lucky", Rosie said, pouring several coins out in front of him. He looked down at them and scratched his head.

"It's all there"

"Alright, I'll trust you", the driver replied with a nod towards the seats.

Rosie smiled and said thanks. She walked down the middle of the bus, looking side to side at each of the occupants, her smile dying; they all looked miserable, and as if like a fast-acting virus she was contracting it. They weren't all miserable, one was asleep. Another guy sneezed into a blue handkerchief, his eyes watering, his face reddened with a strain. She felt the corners of her mouth starting to fall and the misery was on her in seconds.

Rosie stopped and looked out of the window. The rain hammered the floor, creating a carpet of spatters as it bounced, or as it hit the puddles forming on the pavement. Rivers were running down the glass. It made the outside world look like it had been shattered. No, she thought. I've just caught a bus at the perfect moment for the first time in my life. That's a rare thing. I could be out in that getting drenched, freezing and cursing the weather in typical British fashion. Instead, I'm only mildly cold. I'm damp but I'll be dry in a few minutes and if I stay away from sneezy I'll be snot free: winner!

David would call her insufferably positive, but that was only because he was a natural grump.

Rosie lifted her head, straightened herself and walked to the back of the bus, and as if the sun had broken out from the grey clouds, she went with a new smile on her face, one that wouldn't disappear until the weirdo at the shop showed up.

It was taking forever to get to work. Rosie sat slumped over to the side, resting her head against the cold glass of the window. The world flashed out of sight every time she started to nod off. She couldn't fall asleep. Mr. Wright would kill her. She looked up at the grey uniformity of the sky, as if that was going to keep her awake. No. She looked to the front of the bus, at the back of sneezy's head, she had names for all the regulars, then surveyed everyone on her left. Besides the odd cough and a sigh here or there, it was completely silent. A bus was basically a mobile waiting room.

She looked at her watch and rubbed her knees together. Every time she looked the hands weren't where they should have been. They – especially the hand representing seconds - were too slow. It was as if they was waiting for her to look away so it could lurch around the face, playing games, only to resume their natural speed when she looked back.

Time was a funny thing, she thought. So many different things had to line up so that she could catch her bus on time. A single accident a few miles back could have changed the entire course of her day and left her drenched, drenched and fired for being late. Rather you than me, love.

"Hurry up, mate!" one of the passengers shouted.

The bus driver looked in his mirror, "What do you think I'm doing...mate". He didn't sound very happy.

"Just saying, mate, some of us have places to be", the passenger turned and looked at everyone, landing on her. He smiled, lifted his eyebrows and turned around.

"I don't control the traffic, mate"

How many times do you have to say, 'mate', Rosie thought, shrinking into her seat, looking out of the window at the passing scenery. She became very aware of the word and knew she'd be looking out for it all day like red cars once you noticed and started counting them. Just look at the scenery, the lovely, drizzly, miserable looking scenery.

When the bus passed Mott Street she rang the bell and got off at a stop not ten metres away from the shop. She burst in, ringing a second bell, and saw Mr. Wright standing at the counter, looking at the clock. He was a tall, thin rake of a man who wore glasses. She knew he ran a lot, she'd seen him. He looked to be in pretty good shape for his age and didn't seem ashamed of his greying hair. And so he shouldn't be, she thought.

"Miss Wren!" he said, cheerfully.

"I'm sorry I'm late, Mr. Wright. The bus—"

"You're not late. The clock's wrong. It's a bit fast"

"Oh...ohh. Bloody clocks"

Mr. Wright looked puzzled.

"First my watch, then your clock"

"Time's a funny thing isn't it?" he said, scrunching his nose with a smile, lifting his glasses up his nose, "Speaking of which you've made a great improvement on that front"

"Right" she said as her heartbeat slowed.

"Mr. Wright"

"What? No, I mean right, thank you. I'm glad I've improved. I can't imagine how close you were to getting rid of me"

Mr. Wright looked over the rims of his glasses and laughed from the gut, "You can't can you?". He started laughing again. Rosie wasn't sure whether to join in. She waited a few beats and then did so reluctantly.

"You're fired"

"What!?"

"I'm joking, Miss Wren, levity!", he said, laughing again.

"That's...hilarious, Mr. Wright"

"Speaking of hilarious, you're from the Newman Block, right?

"Yeah"

"There's an interesting article in the paper. You live alongside some very strange people, no offense"

"None taken. I'd agree with you in some cases"

"I'll let you read it and decide for yourself if it's a hoax or not"

"A hoax? At my place?"

"I just hope you're not an arachnaphobe. Would you do a favour for me and watch the shop for a while? I have to run an errand. I shouldn't be more than half an hour"

"I'd be happy to", she said.

"I trust you" he replied and picked up one of the newspapers on the counter, smiling. He folded it under his arm and walked out the door, ringing the bell as he did. The door itself crawled to a close before clicking shut. The only sounds were the cars outside and the gentle click of the faulty clock. She waited a few seconds, expecting a customer to come bustling in, soaked in rain, and walked around the counter. A newspaper was lying open, a few pages in. She caught the word 'Newman' in an article under the heading, _The Spider's from Mars._

Sighing she pulled herself up to the counter, "What've the locals been up to?"

_Several residents of the Newman tower block, Salford, have reported a number of strange occurrences. Over the past week there have been a number of anonymous accounts about large spiders being seen in several flats. The most unusual aspect of this story is that several people have reported house hold items being stolen by said creatures, a claim that has many believing this to be an elaborate hoax. However, Newman residents insist that it is not. A resident who chose to be named, Tracy Matlan, claimed that on May 20__th__, one such arachnid stole a slice of toast as she was but—_

The door bell rang. Rosie looked up. A red haired man entered the shop and looked around. They made eye contact for a second before she broke it off and resumed reading. In her peripheral vision she saw him walk around to the confectionery aisle, watching her as he did. What's his problem? She thought, pretending to read the article. For a moment she glanced at it, then back at the man but he was gone, presumably ducking behind the shelves. If he jumps out I'll thump him.

She searched for where she left off, mouthing the word toast, and began to continue when...

"Excuse me. How much are these?". It was the man. He was holding a pack of jelly babies. He shook them and smiled.

"Isn't there are price on the shelf?"

"Nope"

"It must have fallen off. They're ninety-nine pence each, but if you buy one you get one free"

"That's good" he said, examining the bag, "Have you ever had one of these?"

"Jelly babies? Who hasn't?"

"Plenty of people, most people throughout human history actually, a lot of them would be horrified at the idea of a jellied baby" he said, grinning. He noticed she wasn't smiling and the grin faded, "Just a joke. Name a historical figure and I'll tell you if they've had one"

"Alexander the Great"

"Nope"

"I'm guessing you meant any historical figure after jelly babies were invented"

"Not necessarily"

"That doesn't make sense", Rosie said, raising an eyebrow.

"You know me, sometimes I don't" he replied, leaning against the shelf with a beaming smile.

"Don't—"

The shelves wobbled, prompting him to jump and stand up straight, "Sorry"

"It's okay. I've only known you for, what? A minute?"

"Yes!" he said, walking around to the front of the counter, "This is the first time we've ever met and it's nice to meet you for the first time ever". He held his hand out. Rosie gingerly accepted and shook it. "You...reminded me of someone"

"Someone pretty I hope"

"Oh no"

"Wow, thanks. Did you want those jelly babies?"

"I mean, she is attractive by human standards, but she's more like an annoying little sister to me than anything else"

"You sound like my brother"

"I hope not"

"No, I mean I imagine that's how he sees me, annoying"

"I'm sure he loves you more than he's willing to show", the man said, shifting his eyes around, "You know men, got to keep up an appearance, like they don't have any feelings even if we're torn up inside"

"Well, you don't know David", Rosie said, turning a page.

"I...know that if you were in trouble, real trouble, he'd surprise you"

Rosie held her fist up to her throat, her fingernails pressing against her skin. She looked him up and down to see if she recognized him from anywhere. She felt like she did. Besides his striking red hair he had green eyes and pale skin, as if he had been living in a wardrobe all his life. He was six feet tall, thereabouts and wore a thin, grey v-neck jumper with a navy blue shirt underneath, its top two buttons undone. Then it hit her.

"You're one of David's mates aren't you?"

"No"

"You know, if he damaged Ruffles he can tell me himself. I'd prefer to hear an apology from his mouth"

"I don't know your brother and even if I did I'm not here to apologize for him, I'm here for jellied b— jelly babies and...", he looked around the counter, then over his shoulder, "A Kit Kat Chunky"

"What's a Kit Kat Chunky?"

"Four years too early", he muttered to himself

"Four years too what?"

"Never you mind" he said, searching his pockets, flustered, "I'm...hear for...jelly babies". He slammed something down onto the table. Rosie looked down to see three black buttons and a troll doll with blue hair.

"You've...you, that's not money"

"I don't have the right money for this time period"

"You don't have any"

"Well, I wasn't planning on staying long, was I!? I wasn't intending to buy anything. When is it? It smells like the nineties".

Rosie stared at him. He was talking utter jibberish. She listened anyway because he was entertaining - if bizarre - she had to give him that. Still, she reached under the counter for Mr. Wright's trusty baseball bat, smiling, nodding, feeling for the handle; one sign of danger and he's out of the shop or out cold, she thought.

"Mmhm. Yep"

"I need nineties money, more importantly British nineties money", the man grabbed the counter and lifted himself to look over it. "What does it look like?"

Rosie held her stomach and laughed, "You want me to open the till?"

"Yes. Show me the money"

"So you can rob it?"

He shot back, his eyes wide. His jaw dropped. He sounded hurt. "Rosie Wren! I am deeply offended, bottom-of-the-well offended. I've never stolen anything in my life...except the T— my vehicle. No, I borrowed that". He stepped back and scratched his head, "I've always been a bit vague about money. I've never needed it"

"Because you nick stuff?"

"No", he said, sounding like a sulking teenager.

"Well then. I'm a bit vague about selling you anything", Rosie frowned, "Sorry, mate".

"Oh go on" he pleaded. He waved his hand over the items on the table, very proud of them and said, "Are you sure we can't trade?"

"What use could I have with a troll doll and three...buttons?". Rosie tilted her head and looked up at him. She looked back down at the buttons lying on the newspaper and pictured Ruffles sitting on the bed, missing one of his own, "Hm".

"Has something caught your attention?"

"No...I mean, yeah. Ruffles, he's missing a..."

"...Troll?"

"A button", she said absently

"Well, I'd be more than happy to trade you all three buttons for one bag of jelly babies. Heck, I'll throw in the troll doll too. He needs a home. My pocket isn't the best—"

"Shut up for a sec"

"Okay, shutting up"

There was something else though. Something he said, but the gears in her head weren't moving fast enough. She closed her eyes and ran back through the conversation, what she could remember anyway. It was so obvious, but so elusive. It was like chasing a butterfly that was just out of reach, frustrating, right there in front of you but deftly weaving around in the air, dodging any grasping hands. Then it clicked. It all fell into place. A part of her hoped she was right and that he was lying, that he really was one of David's friends. She lifted her eyelids slowly and tightened her hand around the handle of the baseball bat.

"How do you know my name?"


End file.
